


Predict a Riot

by seriola



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dumbledore's Army, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriola/pseuds/seriola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during Deathly Hallows. The remaining members of Dumbledore's Army set up camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predict a Riot

When Anthony returns from the prefects' meeting, Michael is twenty points behind Terry in their game of Exploding Snap and too distracted to welcome him back. There's nothing unusual about one of his best friends being in the same compartment of the Hogwarts Express - besides, Anthony always comes back from these meetings with a list of rules that Michael absolutely, this year, _this year so help me Merlin_ , is not to break; it's best not to get him started - so he doesn't look up right away until he registers a second pair of feet and Padma Patil's voice rapping out "Colloportus."

Okay. That's unusual.

Michael's broken their boys-only rule a couple of times. Last year was one hundred percent necessary, he swears it. Cho was a seventh year and unlikely to return next September for a snog in the Hogwarts Express, but that was the trip back home. This is different. They have a long-standing pact that on the first of September, the train ride from London to Hogwarts is only for him and Anthony and Terry—so they can shake off the last bits of summer holidays and properly become a Them again. This year it seems more important than ever to hold on to some semblance of normalcy. If anyone is going to break tradition it's more than a little weird that it's Anthony, who wears his prefect badge as proof that his genetic makeup is ninety-nine percent rules.

Terry looks up from their deck of cards and turns paler than usual. " _Oh_. I, I have something for that, only hold on." Michael looks up to see Anthony taking his hand away from his cheek: there's a fresh trickle of blood, and the broken weal is too neat to be anything but deliberate. Against the neatness of his school robes and carefully combed hair it looks at once fitting and out of place.

"Who did that?" Michael demands, torn between inspecting the injury and the need to stop the top spread of cards from exploding. While he mutters a hasty spell, sweeping away the deck so Anthony can sit, Terry scrabbles around for his ever-present bag of potions. "C'mon, I can't believe you _finally_ got into a proper fight and you didn't even invite—" 

Padma, pausing from drawing the blinds, cuts him off with a withering look. "We've just got back from the prefects' meeting, and that would be a welcoming gift from our new professor."

"From what," Terry says. He drops an allergy potion on the floor. "But. A _professor_?"

The noise of shattering glass seems to shake Anthony out of his stupor. He uses his wand to clean up the mess before perching on the edge of the seat. Only then does he accept the vial and handkerchief Terry gives him, taking care of the cut on his face with the same spare movements, as though this is an everyday occurrence. Michael would have punched him for taking his time, except that seven years has taught him that his friend is never to be rushed. Besides, it takes Anthony three tries to uncork the vial. 

"I wouldn't know about their teaching credentials. Amycus and Alecto Carrow, they're Death Eaters—so I suppose Binns's class is looking quite appealing now in comparison, I'm ever so glad I didn't drop History," Anthony says, sounding as dry as usual if nothing else.

Padma says, "He and Hannah got that for being halfblood, you should have seen Parkinson _smirking_. Amycus said the rest of us would have to watch out for them, and not to go soft on the younger years if they misbehave—we're to use the Cruciatus on anyone who's out of line, or speaks out against Snape or You-Know-Who or—almost anything, it seems." She looks ill, which, after catching a glimpse of reflection in the shaded windows, Michael realizes they all do.

"Fuck," he says, which seems to sum up the situation.

"But that's, that's an _Unforgivable._ Even if we wanted to, which we _don't_ , we don't even know how, that's using Dark Arts." Terry sounds shocked, like Padma's suggested murdering a basket full of kittens with a rusty spoon. Michael wasn't raised fully in the wizarding world like the rest of them, so he suspects there's a depth to the taboo he's missing out on. 

Not that torture needs a lot of cross-culture translation.

"Defense is just Dark Arts on the syllabus, now," Anthony says softly. "I suppose we'll be expected to learn."

Michael frowns at him. Even from a logical standpoint that's a bit much. "Like hell we will. What are we going to do?"

"Michael, you of all people—" Anthony glances at Padma and falls silent, not without a meaningful look. _Need to be careful_ is how Michael knows that sentence ends. Which, all right, he promised his parents exactly that, not five hours before. The last thing the Corners need is any scrutiny on their forged papers that mark them as more than the muddy union of Muggleborn and Muggle. On the other hand, that well-worn sentence has never worked particularly well in the past.

Unexpectedly, it's Padma who says, "No, Michael's right. If this is how it starts, we should at least warn the others before they run into trouble."

Terry's already biting his nails. "What others? Kevin's in Azkaban—"

Michael says, "Where'd you—"

"Well, he's Muggleborn, isn't he? And no one's heard from Stephen since he went home last year. Lisa went to stay with her mum in France, I got a postcard from her the other week, so she won't be here, either."

"I was with Su and Mandy earlier," Padma says, "but I haven't seen Morag. Her parents could have pulled her out of school. Last term she had a letter wanting her to come home after... you know."

Despite stereotypes, the Ravenclaw boys' dorm has always been a lively place. Michael tries to picture it with only the three of them, without Kevin going out on the balcony for a smoke at all hours, without Stephen's stupid model trains everywhere. He can't, quite. It gets worse when he thinks about all the Muggleborn students, how empty the common room is going to look.

Anthony finishes folding up the blood- and potions-soaked handkerchief. "We've got to protect the younger students. At least Padma and I do, as prefects; it's our responsibility."

There's an unhappy knot of tension in Michael's stomach. "Shut up, Goldstein," he snaps, scowling. No doubt Anthony's serious. Michael sometimes forgets how stubborn he is because Anthony never speaks up, but if he thinks Michael is going to hide while one of his best friends runs around getting himself sliced up by Death Eaters in the name of prefectly duty, _well_. Not so much. "Just because some of us aren't wearing them fancy badges. We'll all do our bit, so long as you stay away from that bloke's wand end. I mean it, you're not allowed to have all the fun—anyroad that's not what I meant. What are we going to _do_?"

Terry and Anthony immediately know what he means. Terry turns a faint shade of green. Anthony's expression goes completely blank. "Because I don't know about you lot," Michael continues, "but I didn't come back to school for _that_ to happen." He points to Anthony's cheek, the mark healing from the potion but still visible. 

"It's not as though we're all Harry Potter," Padma says. "We're only children. This isn't the time for heroics, Michael, this is real. If they're going to hurt us for no reason at all, what do you think is going to happen when you _do_ give them one?"

Michael hasn't got an answer for that. They sit there, looking at each other, while the train sways underneath them, the rails providing a rhythmic clacking that swallows up their silence. Of course he's scared, but he's not going to say it in front of Padma. In front of anyone. It seems to be beside the point.

It's Terry who speaks up first. He jumps up, scattering his comic books everywhere. "Harry," he blurts out. "Of course, that's it, isn't it?"

"Potter isn't here, Terry," Anthony reminds him. It is completely like Terry to miss the obvious. 

Terry waves his hands at him. "No, of course I, that's not what I mean. Who's left in Gryffindor?"

"My sister," Padma says, "and Lavender Brown. I think I saw Neville on the platform—"

"And there's Ernie and Hannah still, and all of us, and, and G—" Terry sputters to a halt like a car out of petrol, darting a look at Michael. "Well. Enough of us from the D.A., even without Harry or his friends. Right? Isn't this sort of the same thing?" 

Anthony nods, once, which is when Michael knows it's all over.

"Back then, we had Dumbledore as headmaster." Padma crosses her arms, but her dark eyes are gleaming. 

The rest is mere negotiation. Michael winds up being the one to look for the remaining Gryffindors, on the theory that he gets on better with them (which he _doesn't_ , even if Finnigan's all right), and the reason for Terry's stuttering and Anthony's patented sideways glance before they split up becomes obvious when he finally finds the compartment with Neville Longbottom in it. Longbottom's not alone. Aside from the potted plant he's holding, there's also Loony Lovegood and a redhead, the latter unfortunately familiar. 

Ginny looks up when the door slides open, her expression curious at first and then squinty when she sees him. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

This is uncomfortable for about three seconds—is noticing your ex-girlfriend has gotten even more freckly and pretty over the summer a crime if she's your ex-girlfriend who dumped you during a shouting match that involved getting dunked in the lake—before someone bumps into him from behind. 

"Sorry, old chap, got to get through," says Ernie Macmillan. His round face clears when he recognizes Michael, but only slightly; he looks uncomfortable. "Ah, Corner. I wanted to—that is, er—"

"Oh, go on, Ernie, before you block up the entire hall," Susan says. She gives him a little shove and pushes Michael in as well so she can close the door.

"What's this about?" Neville stands up, more automatic than welcoming. He looks confused. To Neville's right, Loony is wrapping her hair around her wand and humming contentedly as the strands turn blue. The rest of them stare at each other awkwardly, not wanting to speak up first, until Susan steps forward, opening her palm. There's a golden coin there that Michael knows immediately is not a real Galleon at all.

"We should talk," she says firmly.

Neville pulls out the same coin from his pocket. "We were discussing that, just now."

Michael hates to admit he even knows where his D.A. coin is. It's like some kind of stupid James Bond thing, and he already knows, somewhere, that this is not going to end well, it's hopeless, they're just a bunch of kids, but—he flings himself down in the empty space next to Ginny and grins at her. "Three for three, then. So what's the plan?"


End file.
